


The Spy Wore Khaki

by vanillafluffy



Category: The Three Investigators | Die drei ??? - Various Authors, The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 10:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14494758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: For the prompt,She’s actual size but she seems much bigger to me...





	The Spy Wore Khaki

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



“Is there anything else you need me for today?” Trixie asks as she whips off her apron. 

“Nothing leaps to mind,” Jupiter replies, looking around the bicycle shed at Jones Salvage Yard. Trixie has really thrown herself into her part-time job; he’s never seen this area look so organized.

“I’d better get home then,” she says with a wry grin. “Two dozen jars of artisanal marmalade aren’t going to cook themselves. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“See you,” he echoes, watching her petite figure scamper out. He strides from the shed so he can watch her cross the street to the old VW Bug he’d found for her commute from the farm.

Three short weeks, and he can hardly imagine the yard without her. The aprons were her first idea. “One, they’ll help keep our clothes cleaner and help them last longer. Two, OSHA orange is fine, but anybody can wear an orange tee shirt. Something with the name of the business on it would be good, so they’ll know who works here. And three, the right apron would give us extra pockets, and who can’t use an extra pocket or two?”

At her suggestion, he’d investigated a local restaurant supply company and found some excellent canvas aprons, with pockets, and plenty of room across the bib to have _Jones Salvage Yard_ embroidered in bright blue script. He has to admit, the aprons are surprisingly utilitarian.

Jupe glances back at the bicycle shed. Just yesterday, it had been a disaster area--frames and wheels, whole bikes, partial bikes, all strewn around the open-sided shed and surrounding area--but that was before Hurricane Trixie. 

He’d been busy fixing a washing machine with a bad belt, so he hadn’t realized what she was up to right away. By the time he discovered her activity, she’d separated the various parts--the wheels were sorted by size, the frames, partials and working bikes were all grouped in different piles. For all her petite size, she has a formidable amount of energy, and as soon as she’d seen him looking the space over, she’d put him to work.

Uncle Titus grouped bikes racks in with automotive parts, along with luggage racks, ski racks, surfboard mounts, and the like, but Trixie suggested hanging them on the shed walls, and putting the better bikes up there, where it was less likely that some clown would try to break them down for parts. (It’s happened, because some people are imbeciles.) Now, the good bikes are mounted on racks high on the wall. There are carefully labeled bins for the different size wheels and parts. The frames are in categories too,, chained loosely together to prevent scrambling.. Really, Trixie is good at this.

Organizing the yard isn’t the only thing she’s good at. Jupe smiles. Last week, she’d caught his arm and announced in a hushed voice that Something Was Going On. She’d been straightening up the table of light fixtures across from the book trailer, and saw a customer go in, remove something from one of the books and leave.

“Has he checked out yet?”

“No, but he stuck whatever it was in his pants pocket. It looked like paper--it could be a treasure map, or maybe he’s a spy passing top secret documents!”

Jupe just looked at her for a moment, dubious. 

“No, really,” she insisted. “He walked in there, looked around, went to one particular book, took the thing out, put it in his pocket and walked back out.”

“Point him out to me.”

The man Trixie indicated wasn’t anyone Jupe knows personally. Yes, he’s lived in Rocky Beach all of his life, but there’s a lot of coming and going (it’s becoming more of a suburb of L.A., which he isn’t too thrilled about). He looked perfectly normal in khaki shorts and a short-sleeved collared shirt. He was making what looked like a perfectly legitimate purchase, two switchplate covers and a mixed handful of bolts and screws. 

Trixie stood nearby, reminding Jupiter of a small terrier, quivering with suppressed energy and ready to start barking at any moment.

The customer extracted his wallet from his right-hand pants pocket, but Jupe’s sharp eyes spotted what looked like the corner of an envelope protruding from his left pocket. He cleared his throat.

“Your total is $3.36…is there something else, sir? Possibly something from our book room that you’ve forgotten about?”

“I saw you put it in your pocket!” Trixie blurted.

The man looked stunned, then blushed bright pink. “It’s mine,” he said, tugging the small envelope from his pocket. “See, it has my name on it!”

“You’re Harold?” At the red-faced man’s nod, Jupe asked, “So what’s going on, Harold?”

“It’s from my wife. It’s our tenth anniversary, and she left me a note this morning…it’s a treasure hunt, and this is the first clue.” He lifts the flap of the envelope and pulls the contents out far enough for them to see that there’s a card inside reading, _Happy Anniversary, Darling!_. “I don’t know what it means, though.”

“We love mysteries!” Trixie said with enthusiasm.

“Unless you really want to do it all without help.”

Harold hesitates. “Maybe just one little clue.” He offers them the card.

Inside, handwritten across from the pre-printed poem (signed ‘Still yours, Beverly’) was the message: _Not gliding on a lake, nor a trumpeter am I. Seek me not in a park, but with mellodious pipes._

“I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean,” Harold said, sighing. Trixie also looked baffled.

Jupiter smiled. “Quite easy, if you know your way around Rocky Beach,” he commented. “What kind of trumpeter might you find gliding in a lake or in a park?”

Trixie’s entire demeanor changed. “A trumpeter swan!” she exclaimed. “The Swan Theater! It’s downtown, across from the boardwalk,” she told Harold. “It’s really old--I’ll be they still have a pipe organ!” She looked to Jupe for confirmation, clearly ready to race to her car and take flight.

“They do,” Jupe agreed, amused by the Beverly's inventiveness. “And a one o’clock matinee. Good luck!”

“And happy anniversary!” Trixie called after their departing customer.

“I’m pretty sure he wasn’t a spy,” Jupe teased Trixie. “Not unless they train spies to blush on cue. Good job spotting him, though. Most people are honest, but the ones with deep pockets can nickel and dime the heck out of our bottom line.”

Trixie is still standing beside the aqua blue Bug, doing something on her phone. She’s so petite, she’s just the right size to drive the little car…he could literally rest his chin on the top of her head--not that he would. She’s so feisty she’s liable to clobber him.

Probably having two older brothers has something to do with that. She certainly demonstrated her assertiveness when they’d tracked down her “missing” brother, Mart….

Poor Mart. Trixie has kept Jupe up to date with his troubles. The citrus grove he’d purchased so hopefully is proving troublesome. He’s had a hard time selling what promises to to a hefty crop of oranges, etc. because it’s so common around here. Everyone has trees in their backyard, or know someone who does. Most growers sell their produce to the conglomerates for juice or other products, which Mart doesn’t want to do. After he lost money trying to sell it at a couple local farmers markets, Trixie started making marmalade from the returning bushels.

At first, she’d been making jars of the tart spread simply to avoid waste, but a few jars given as gifts brought such an enthusiastic response that now _Belden Farms Artisanal Preserves_ is a going concern. Trixie professes amazement; apparently all those summers helping her mother can their family farm’s bounty has paid off.

Trixie puts her phone away and opens the car door slowly, and impulsively, Jupe waves. It surprises him how, at the end of the day, he hates to see her go. He’d grown out of his “Girls are irrelevant to my life” phase by high school, enough to make friends who were female (or identified that way)--but Trixie is different. He’s tried to quantify _how_ she’s different, but there’s something about her that defies his prodigious vocabulary.

There are so many aspects of her that he’s drawn to. There’s that curious blend of practicality and imagination, manifesting itself in an organized bicycle shed and would-be espionage. Then too, she has enough energy to tackle that big project here, and then spend however many hours making gallons of marmalade. And does she have any idea of how pretty she is? Doubtful--she doesn’t do the “perfect hair and make-up at all times” thing; she genuinely comes across as a farm girl, not a California beach bunny type--thank God! If she’s not that type, she isn’t looking for the type of guy that kind of girl wants. Is she?

Jupiter sighs. He’d been a chunky kid. When he got his final growth spurt, he’d gone from being hefty to being within the range of a healthy BMI for his height. Working at the salvage yard keeps him in decent shape, but he likes regular meals too much to ever be ripped with a well-defined six-pack--and that’s the California idea of male perfection. Maybe what he needs is someone who thinks outside the box--or better yet, isn’t even aware there _is_ a box.

When Life gives you oranges, make marmalade. 

Trixie waves back. Gets into the Bug. Drives off.

It’s okay. She’ll be back tomorrow.

…


End file.
